Never thought it would be like this
by chimingofthebells
Summary: After the fall, John and Sherlock find different ways to cope with loss. Rated T for mild language.


John quietly treads into the flat and makes his way into the kitchen. He sets his shopping gently on the table. The flat is silent, as usual. He puts the kettle on and slowly goes about putting food away. The silence is pressing in on him. No violin, no experiments, no deductions. No Sherlock.

When the kettle boils, he fills two mugs. He makes it all the way to Sherlock's chair before he realizes his mistake. For a long while he just stands there, frozen. Then, he sets one mug next to Sherlock's chair and goes to sit in his own. He stares into space, clutching his tea.

The curtains are closed, the lamp's not doing much to light the room. It doesn't matter, all the color has been drained from his life anyways. When he looks around, he no longer sees the brilliant, vivid hues that he once saw. Instead the colors are faded, like an old, forgotten photograph.

The silence is deafening. The terrible thing about silence is that your thoughts seem to overwhelm you. A single thought can consume your mind. It can envelop you and suffocate you, pressing in on you. You struggle, but the thought will never go away, until finally you have to succumb to it.

All John can think about is Sherlock. The image of him falling, his limbs flailing as he tumbles through the air, the way the blood streamed down his face and pooled on the sidewalk. He tries to push the image out of his mind as soon as he feels the lump rise in his throat. But when he pushes the thoughts of his late friend out of his mind, they are replaced by memories of him in his last moments. He had never known his flatmate to sound so defeated. Normally he was always so confident, so indifferent to the rest of the world. But that day, as John listened on the phone, he sounded small, helpless. He remembers the first and last time he ever heard his friend cry, as he tries vainly to staunch his own tears. The sobs consume him, and he buries his face in his shaking hands. Silence can be so cruel.

oOo

The clouds are a deep, dark grey. Tiny droplets are beginning to fall here and there, as if in preview for the storm that's bound to follow. A tall man wearing jeans and a simple t shirt stands at the platform, holding the handle of a small suitcase and checking his watch. He shivers as he feels the raindrops fall onto his arms.

He looks up and down the tracks, scanning for the train that seems to be hours late. He's been waiting for twenty minutes and it is still not here. The smell of a cigarette wafts over to him and he leans towards it, longing for just one drag. He hasn't had one in over a week and Molly made him leave his nicotine patches behind. He inhales deeply through his nose. As soon as he arrives in Vienna he'll stock up on as many cigarettes as he can afford.

Finally, the train pulls up just as thunder rumbles in the sky. The doors open and people swarm forward, pushing to get in. The tall man moves slowly, attracting as little attention to himself as possible. He finds his way onto the train and to his seat by the window. He sits down and stows his suitcase underneath. He folds himself into his seat and attempts to blend in with it.

A middle-aged man wearing an expensive-looking suit sits opposite him, offering no greeting other than a curt nod. As the train pulls away from the station, he brings out a newspaper and unfolds it. The headline is clearly visible to the other man: "Suicide of fake genius." Sherlock scowls briefly at it before turning his head to the windows. It shouldn't bother him anymore, not after the amount of time that headline has been thrown at him. But it does, just a little.

He pushes it out of his mind. He stares out of the window, doing his best to slow his thoughts. _Don't think about it. That's not important anymore. Let them think what they think. All that matters is the task at hand. _He's always been so above what other people think of him. Now should be no different. As the train moves steadily towards Vienna, he busies his mind with deducing the lives of the passengers around him. Three business trips, one sick relative, one affair, two weddings, a funeral. Analyze information, scour all possibilities. Go deeper. Delete information and start again.

A voice breaks through his thoughts. "Hey, you look a bit familiar." He starts and looks up. The man opposite him is regarding him curiously. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Sherlock sighs. "No, no I don't think so." The man doesn't look away.

"I'm sure I've seen you from somewhere, though! Are you a friend of the Richardsons?"

Vaguely Sherlock remembers going to a party for a case, hosted by a family called Richardson. Murder of their neighbor. Needed more information. The party had yielded little information. "No, I don't think so."

"Oh, I never forget a face! Yes, I think you were there! I remember, you kept on checking your mobile, we all thought that was a bit curious. How do you know them, then?"

"I'm sorry, I've never been to any parties by the Richardsons. I think you've mistaken me for someone else." He insisted.

The man chuckles. "Ah, well, maybe. I still think you look awfully familiar. Maybe I know you from somewhere else." Sherlock's eyes flicker to the newspaper that he had just folded away and is now sticking out of his bag. If the man were to glance down, he would remember exactly why his face looked familiar. He would remember the rise and fall of the great Sherlock Holmes. No doubt he reads the news a lot, so he knew about him back when he was the Reichenbach hero, when he was called to Moriarty's trial, and knew when it was declared that he had been a fraud all along. He would gape, maybe splutter a little in shock, then accuse him of being a fraud and maybe ask him how he did it. He would make a huge fuss, tell everyone in earshot and blow his cover. Luckily, he doesn't look down. He doesn't seem to remember the story of the fake detective at all.

oOo

It's been four months since Sherlock died. John doesn't like to think about it too much. He's still living at 221b Baker street, so of course it's hard not to remember that day. Mrs. Hudson helped him clear out all the science equipment and body parts, so for once the kitchen is clean. The skull still sits on the mantle and the smiley face is still painted on the wall, complete with the bullet holes. John can't bring himself to paint over it.

For the first few weeks that John spent alone in the flat, he had stared at that smiley face, contemplating it. At first, it reminded him so heavily of Sherlock that he had to look away. Watching it only made him miss his friend more. One day he got fed up and bought plaster and new wallpaper. But as he stood in front of the wall, staring up at it, he suddenly remembered the time that Sherlock had gotten so bored that he blew up a pot of pea soup, completely covering the kitchen and himself. John was laughing so hard that he forgot to be angry. Smiling at the memory, John packed up the repair supplies and left the smiley face as it was.

He doesn't cry when he looks at it anymore. Now he smiles, and remembers the good times when Sherlock was there with him. He remembers the brilliant deductions and the cold indifference to the human race. He remembers those rare times when Sherlock would show just how much John meant to him. The smiley face is no longer a grim reminder, but a memorial.

It still hurts to remember him. He wakes up in the middle of the night, shaking and crying from a nightmare. It's always the same dream. He's pleading with Sherlock, but this time he's floating in midair, right in front of him. He begs and pleads and tries as hard as he can to make his friend step away from the edge, but it's no use. The tall man bids him farewell and falls forward. John tried to catch him but his hands pass uselessly through his body. All he can do is stare as the detective plunges down, down towards the pavement, falling for what seems like an eternity. He never makes it to the ground. John always wakes up before he reaches it.

When he wakes up from these dreams, he wipes away his tears and limps to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He sips it, staring out of the window and doing his best to ignore the hollow ache in his stomach. Then he usually gets dressed, because there's no point in trying to go back to sleep.

Today, John decides that he needs a change of pace. The weather is good and there are people out, enjoying the rare sunshine.

John ambles down the street, hands in his pockets. It's a nice day, too nice to waste indoors. The sun is shining brightly, and there's a slight chill in the air. The streets are full of people taking advantage of the nice weather. Couples are walking arm in arm, laughing with each other, and parents talk to each other while children swing from their hands. John smiles to himself. So many people are in high spirits, and the optimistic atmosphere is rubbing off on him.

John feels his pocket buzz. He fumbles with his phone, and in his distraction, he crashes into a woman carrying bulging bags of shopping. Groceries fly everywhere and both people fumble to catch them.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry..." John stammers as he bends down to pick up the scattered food.

"Oh no, that's alright, I wasn't really watching where I was going." John looks up to see the woman. His breath catches in his throat.

She's beautiful. Her heart shaped face is framed with auburn hair that cascades smoothly over her shoulders. She's wearing a flowery yellow shirt with jeans, with a simple golden pendant dangling from her neck. Her eyes are downcast as she reaches to grab her scattered groceries. She glances up at him for a split second, then shyly looks back down when she sees him looking at her. Her eyes are a rich, milk chocolate brown, studded with long lashes.

For a moment, John doesn't know what to say. He scrambles to find words, any words. "No, no, I wasn't looking, I had my phone out, I should have stopped, I'm sorry." he clears his throat and packs a carton of milk back into one of the bags.

"I'm John Watson," he says as he straightens up. She gives him a flirtatious smile as she rises too.

"Mary," she says. "Mary Morstan." She holds out a hand. John reaches out and shakes it.

"Hi, hello. Sorry about that again. Um, can I make that up to you?" he says, gesturing to the shattered jars on the pavement. He looks up at her hopefully.

"How?" She asks with a raised eyebrow.

"uh, well, I could-um..." John suddenly finds that he does not know what to say. He casts his mind around desperately for something smooth, but his minds is clouded for want of saying the right thing. Luckily, Mary interrupts him.

"You could always take me to lunch, that should cover the costs," she suggests.

John smiles broadly. "Yeah, sure, I'd like that." Mary smiles back at him and hooks her arm around his. It's a very comfortable fit. Arm in arm, together they make their way down the street.

oOo

Sherlock stares at the small bag in front of him. His body is screaming at him to reach out and grab it and make good use of its contents. It will help him put this misery to end, for a few hours at least. His eyes are fixed on the drugs only a foot away. All he has to do is reach out and grab it like he's done countless times before.

But for the first time in his life, he hesitates. He doesn't have to think very hard to figure out what's stopping him.

John wouldn't want him to.

Sherlock sighs and bows his head. The good doctor would be disappointed. He would calmly dispose of the drugs, then chastise him for even thinking about it. And Sherlock would listen. He's never listened to anyone else when it came to this. Not Mycroft, not Mummy, not Lestrade, nobody. But now John is stopping him without even being present.

Sherlock screws his eyes shut. _Just take the damn cocaine, _he thinks to himself_. _He rocks back and forth. John will never know. Just like he doesn't know that he's alive right now, battling with himself.

John. What is John doing right now, he wonders? Moved on, probably. Found himself a girl, moved out of the flat, gotten some dull, meaningless job. Tedious and normal, just like everyone else in that stupid city. What is he doing at this very moment? Sitting on a couch, a cup of tea in one hand and his arm around some woman, watching the telly, moving through life without Sherlock.

he cringes at the thought. No. John would never do that. Not after everything. Not after all the years he spent as a soldier in Afghanistan, not after all the time he spent by the detective's side. John would find something else to do, maybe not solving crimes, but something with purpose. Perhaps he has become a cop, or a doctor, saving lives every day. He wouldn't be sitting doing nothing.

John wouldn't be miserable. Sherlock knows that. He knows that John was a soldier, had seen dozens of men die before him. Sherlock was no different. Just because he was his friend, doesn't mean he is any different from all the other friends he had. John would mourn and move on, because John knows how. He's experienced loss before.

Sherlock doesn't know how to move on. He's never lost anyone before. He's never had anyone to lose. All his childhood years were spent on his own, exploring or shut up in his room, preferring to retreat into his own mind rather than tolerate the stupidity of the other children his age. He was isolated, he had no friends, and he grew used to that. He preferred it. Friends would just slow him down.

On his cases, he would encounter mourners, people in a deep state of grief over the death of their friends and loved ones. They were always so hard to talk to. Their emotions got in the way of their thoughts, their judgment would be clouded. They would be even more stupid than usual. If caring so much causes so much pain and foolishness, why bother? Sherlock had never previously understood why anyone would want that.

But then John Watson came into his life, and he finally felt what other people felt. He had a friend, someone who listened to him and understood him. Someone who knew how to calm him down and how to act when Sherlock was being difficult. John saved him from himself.

Now the pain of losing John hits Sherlock like a tidal wave, threatening to knock him to the floor. For the first time in his life, he feels miserable because someone is not there. He had gotten used to John's gentle understanding, and now that he's gone, the genius doesn't quite know what to do. It's almost worse than John being dead. The knowledge that he is out there, unreachable, is enough to make him shudder. Sherlock can never contact his friend again, not until he's finished his work. That's if Moriarty's men don't get to the detective first. They're already starting to become suspicious. If John is to stay alive, he can never know that Sherlock is as well.

His head swirls with emotion. Pain and loss and grief fill his mind, pounding against his brain, threatening to burst. It's too much to handle. Sherlock has confronted fear and anger before, but a loss such as this...it has to stop, if only for a few hours.

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks up. He stretches a trembling hand towards the bag of cocaine on the table.

_John, I need you to save me. _

oOo

John's phone chimes with a new text. He sets down the cardboard box he was carrying and fishes his mobile out of his pocket. He frowns at the screen.

_[From: Unknown number]_  
_[To: John Watson]_  
_Meet me at St. Barts as soon as possible. _

Unknown number...who the hell is this? John pauses for a moment. It could be a friend of Mary's, although why they would want to meet him at St. Barts is beyond him. He hasn't been to that place in three years, ever since...

Before he can respond to this strange message, his phone comes alive with another text.

_[From: Unknown number]_  
_[To: John Watson]_  
_It's extremely important. _

He taps out a response.

_[To: Unknown number]_  
_[From: John Watson]_  
_Why? Who the hell is this?_

Barely a moment has passed before he gets a reply.

_[From: Unknown number]_  
_[To: John Watson]_  
_You'll figure it out. Just come. You'll understand, I promise. _

He looks around himself. He's the only one in the flat, and it's almost completely empty. Most of the furniture has been moved out, and all his things have been packed into boxes to be carried away to his and Mary's new flat. John sighs. Then he goes up to his bedroom and retrieves his gun from the drawer it's been sitting in for the last three years. He tucks it into his belt and rushes down the stairs.

it takes him fifteen minutes to reach the hospital. Night has fallen, and the street lamps cast a warm, yellow glow onto the pavement. John steps out of the taxi and stands on the sidewalk, staring at a certain spot on the ground. Three years ago, that was the spot where his best friend lay, broken and bleeding. He turns and heads into the building.

The lights are off. The whole place has an eerie,empty sensation to it. John carefully treads down the hallway, ears straining for any sound. He can't hear anything. His hand instinctively reaches for his gun. He rounds the corner. At the end of the hall, a light is shining from underneath the door of the morgue.

John draws his weapon as he nears the room, apprehensive. He could be meeting anyone right now. He might very well be walking into his death.

He pushes the door open. He enters the morgue with bated breath. At a glance, the room seems empty, just rows and rows of metal tables. His heart skips a beat as he sees a tall, dark figure leaning against the wall. He freezes.

"Hello, John."

The army doctor goes tense. No, it can't be. Sherlock is dead. This must be some sick imposter. The man steps forward.

John's body goes numb as he gets a proper look at the man standing before him. It really is him. His hair has been cut short and dyed a light, sandy blonde. An ill-fitting shirt hangs around his shoulders, and he's wearing dark jeans that are at least two sizes too big for him. There are bags under his eyes and his face is lined with exhaustion and something else that he can't quite place. This man looks completely different, and yet, as John looks into those piercing blue eyes, he knows that it can be no one other than Sherlock, alive and standing before him.

His jaw drops. For a moment he just stands there dumbly, gaping at his best friend.

"Sher...Sherlock...you're alive..." he chokes out. The detective smiles. Normally he would make some remark about stating the obvious, but he doesn't feel the need to right now. He simply nods. The two men don't say a word as they stare each other down, raking their eyes over the other's features, drinking each other in. Finally Sherlock breaks the silence.

"It's good to see you, John."

Suddenly, the feeling rushes back into the soldier. Before he knows what he's doing, his body is lunged forward and his fist collides with Sherlock's face.

Sherlock falls to the ground. He doesn't look up as John follows, punches raining down on him.

"You were dead!" He screams as he brings his fist down. "You jumped off of the fucking roof! I saw you fall! There was blood!"

Sherlock doesn't react. "I can explain everything, just let me expla-"

"No!" John interrupts him with another punch._"_Three years! For three years you let me believe you were dead! I mourned you! You've been alive all this time and you never contacted me!" he punctuates each sentence with a blow. Blood spurts from Sherlock's nose and pours down his rapidly swelling face.

John stops. He stands and looks down on the other man, fists clenched. Sherlock rolls his head.

"John..." he groans, "I'm sorry. Please, let me explain." with great difficulty, he drags himself off the floor and faces his friend. John doesn't move, just looks at him expectantly, silently fuming.

"I had to do it." He starts tentatively. "snipers were after you. Not just you, mrs. Hudson and Lestrade as well. Moriarty said that unless I kill myself, you three would all die. I couldn't let that happen."

"You couldn't even send me one bloody text message?" John snarls.

Sherlock grimaces. "No. He still had men out there. He was dead, but his network was still alive. If they found out I wasn't dead, they would have gone after you. I couldn't risk it. I had to wait until I had disassembled the web. And I've finished the work. I killed Sebastian Moran in Zurich a few days ago, and he was the last of it. It's over, I can come home now."  
He takes a step forward, looking at John hopefully. John forces himself to hold his gaze. For a moment, he is distracted by his piercing eyes, the ones he thought he would never see again.

"Well, you can have 221b." He has to force the words out. "You'll be there alone, since I'm not living there anymore."

Sherlock's face falls. "What?"

"I'm moving into a new flat with Mary. My _fiancee._" he holds up his fist to display a plain gold wedding band. Sherlock stares at it, his face displaying a mixture of shock and confusion.

"You're getting married..." he says. There's nothing else he can think of to say.

"Brilliant deduction, genius. What, did you expect to come back and everything would be just as you left it? Well new flash, things change. People change."

Sherlock just stares at him, his brows knit together. "If you think these last three years have been easy for me," he says, voice barely above a whisper, "they haven't. I've nearly been killed over and over. I've had to hide, I've practically been living off the streets. I had to travel around on my own, and I didn't have you there to help me. You weren't the only one who suffered, John."

The doctor stares into the detective's face. His eyes trace the lines on his forehead and mouth. Lines of misery, he realizes. In his mind's eye, he sees a pale, ragged figure crouched in some motel room, starving and tired and alone. Something loosens in his chest.

He suddenly throws himself forward. Sherlock flinches, expecting to be punched again. Instead, he is surprised to find himself enveloped in a very tight hug.

Sherlock stiffens, unsure of what to do. John's face is buried into the crook of his neck and his shoulders are shaking. After a moment, he places his arms around his friend.

"Don't ever leave like that again." John mumbles, his voice muffled. Sherlock tightens his hug.

"Believe me, I'm not going anywhere." He murmurs. The two stay like that, clinging to each other, finally together after so much time apart. Right there, Sherlock vows that he will never leave John again, no matter what may happen. He will never cause so much suffering for either of them, never again.


End file.
